


trip

by emmyeccentric



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She enjoyed the fizzing warmth after a few glasses of Malbec, but she never indulged to excess. Everything seemed so mundane now, a monochrome tableau of unending routine. The temptation before her now chomped on her every nerve."</p><p>or, the one where Bedelia does shrooms</p>
            </blockquote>





	trip

**Author's Note:**

> got this idea last night, was like, "why the fuck not", drank a beer, and did the damn thing.

She was bored. The whimsical, Roccoco novelty of Florence had faded months ago. Sullenly, she accepted her fixed circumstance; unable to return to the Americas for sheer safety’s sake.

Her only true distractions were when Hannibal paraded her on his arm at each one of his _bal masques_ and opera-season charity events. She stood as a statue, smiling modestly when needed, uttering rehearsed greetings when prompted; always his pretty little artifact of a wife.  Her supplemental position as a French Lit tutor (and occasional lecturer) conjured nostalgic feelings of when she was an undergrad, walking the English-speaking students through basic conjugations. However, like most other pastimes she had adopted in Europe, it grew tedious.

Hannibal would help to alleviate her restlessness, be it through his mouth, fingers, or simply their bodies tangled into carnal knots. It didn’t happen often, because Hannibal Lecter’s actions (even his most primal ones, _especially_ his primal ones) were always painstakingly calculated.

Even though she was tempted, she never helped him in his kills. She had an appetency for the taste of blood, but after several years of her own pursuits, she no longer wanted the mess.

Bedelia Du Maurier’s idea of a nightmare was being a bored housewife, and now due to a twisted sequence of events, that nightmare was her dismal reality.

On one night when Hannibal’s disdain and pretense was exceptionally voracious, he had prepared not one, but two, kettles of tea for their guest.  The three retired to Doctor and Mrs. “Chaput”’s lounge. The conversation was uncomfortable, if not unpleasant with the man’s overt cynicism and vulgar jokes, but the good doctor and his wife listened intently, Bedelia glancing nervously over to her false husband, wondering how long he expected her to entertain this man’s crude notions. After a brief period of time, the guest’s ramblings were quickly interrupted as he began to sweat and his eyes grew wide. He gnawed at his lips until they bled.

“ _What have you done_ ,” Bedelia hissed, “if you poison him, he’s no use to us.”

“Obviously _._ ” Hannibal turned to the currently incoherent, blubbering ill-fated man. “Now, Signor, I have spiked your tea with hallucinogenic psilocybin mushrooms, nothing too dangerous. You can speak, you can even walk; you’re simply in a state of shock.” His medical expertise punctuated every staccato syllable. “However, I’d much prefer if you stay seated.” Quickly, he grabbed his plastic covering from the nearby closet and a stiletto knife, hesitating. “Would you like to do the honors, Doctor?”

“No, “ she let out a heavy breath, “I think I’ll retire for the night, and leave to your business, if you’ll excuse me.” A sudden scream interrupted her, as the man tried to stand, wobbling, and quickly fell back into the plush armchair chair. Hannibal took his place behind him.

“Goodnight, _madam_.” She nodded, and quickly ducked out of the lounge, making her way to the kitchen.

Less than five minutes passed before a piercingly pained shriek shattered the air in the villa, followed by the thick gurgling characteristic of a slit throat. Bedelia was in the kitchen, undeterred. She focused of the kettle of tea in which buoyant mushrooms floated carelessly.

Dr. Du Maurier preferred to be in complete control of her own consciousness. She enjoyed the fizzing warmth after a few glasses of Malbec, but she never indulged to excess. Everything seemed so mundane now, a monochrome tableau of unending routine. The temptation before her now chomped on her every nerve. She swallowed, relieved as she heard Hannibal dragging his latest game to their basement for further butchering. Quickly she poured a cup of the tea and sipped it tentatively. It was a lightly umami liquid, its warmth soothing. Hannibal wouldn’t return upstairs for possibly another hour, and she wasn’t entirely sure of his reaction to this particular endeavor. When it cooled slightly, she took three unladylike gulps of the brew, and rinsed the cup vigorously (Hannibal’s olfactory senses rivaled that of a truffle pig).

Once she was in her bedroom, she sank into her bed, waiting for something she was unsure of. Even in this moment, her neurons started to tickle and crackle, her fingers dancing along the smooth expanse of her wheat-colored duvet.  The blue sheath dress she wore became unbearably tight, the linen becoming increasingly coarse. She feared the black velvet sash at her waist would crush her ribs and bruise her lungs. Meanwhile, the ceiling above her began a lazy waltz like cirrus clouds.

With trembling fingers, she unzipped her dress and untied her sash, leaving a lapis puddle on the floor. She wanted to have no constricting garments, and her underwear was next to fall. Her satin robe hung on her closet door, levitating like a mass of liquid gold, ebbing fluidly. The fabric was deliciously cool.

Her legs felt like separate entities from the rest of her form, and she hovered over to her gilded phonograph, dropping the needle. Fauré. Deep, dulcet tones poured from the speaker like melted chocolate, and her vision began to swim with cool, navy tones; her room looked aglow in lavender moonlight, even though the shades were drawn. The cello began its crescendo, and she felt her blood pulse through the weak confines of her flesh. If she were to touch her skin, she was sure she would spark. The music became delicate once more, and she settled herself on the bed.

It picked up after a moment, as she ran her hands over her neck, fingers dancing along its hollow. She moved to her breasts, her torso, and closed her eyes. Starbursts unlike she ever saw danced behind her closed lids, greens, and purples; with brief stark explosions of amber. She palmed her breasts again, relishing in the soft, pillowy feel, but her hands grew unsteady, and continued their journey downwards.

An accelerando began as the room became a violent red, and she sharply ran her thin fingers over slick and sensitive flesh. The cello swelled and its tempo increased into its climax, as her breath grew labored. She felt like she was afire.

The knock at her door went unheard.

“Bedelia, I heard loud—“ The image Dr. Lecter was greeted with was wanton and gloriously disheveled. She didn’t stop her movements even as the record yelped to its halt.

“ _Hannibal_ ”, she breathed out, and when she opened her eyes to face him, her ice-colored irises had been completely occluded by inky pupils. “Come,” she said, still fucking her fingers, with a razor-sharp grin.

“Bedelia, are you well?”

She removed her hands and ran her fingers down the curve of her waist. “I drank the tea,” she smirked. Looking down at her skin exposed by her open robe, she noticed the ethereal glow radiating from her flesh. She looked at Hannibal, and the shadow he cast was beastly, a tall, clawed thing, with sharp antlers growing from it. It was grotesquely beautiful.

“Lie on the bed Hannibal,” she drawled her command, voice dripping with lust. He took a few tentative steps forward, shadow following him; painting her headboard a charcoal hue as he lie prostrate.

She began to peel off his clothes piece by piece, tossing them to the floor; fascinated by the way they settled at such a glacial pace. When he was nude, his body was contoured by an onyx aura. As she settled over him, two poles collided, the dark and the light; she gently placed his fingers over her neglected core.

She lowered herself onto him, feeling him through every capillary and artery in the map of her being. When she began to move, she felt amorphous: her body flowed like water.

She wasn’t sure if she was close to coming, the cocktail of intense pleasure and the drugs completely negating her self-perception. Hannibal’s fingers drew sharp lines over her clit, and she felt the light she emanated pull inwards. She could feel it buzzing in her eyes, her mouth, her ears, propelling through her spine and limbic system. Her lips tingled as she managed his name.

The tingling resplendence inside her burst forward without warning, and she considered the fact that it could blind anyone in its wake. She cried out, the sound echoing in her mind. Hannibal began to jerk in sharp motions, and he sighed out his release as the darkness surrounding him began to fade. Bedelia rolled off of him, and settled in the thick, engulfing billow of her bed.

Almost immediately, she felt the promise of sleep beckon her and her eyes fluttered close.

She dreamt of a giant black stag and white doe, its pristine fur matted with blood.

When she woke almost ten hours later, she felt revived.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have a /fuckton/ of askbox fic memes going on right now, so you know, hit me up. emmyeccentric.tumblr.com/tagged/my fic


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